


Yes

by circlique



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage Proposal, bickering like an old married couple, england being a bit oblivious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-15 21:30:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12329241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circlique/pseuds/circlique
Summary: Francis has fancied the idea of marrying Arthur for years, but Arthur never seems to pick up on his hints.





	Yes

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a tumblr prompt: “You fainted, straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. The Second World War has ended. The world has been at peace for six months. Or at least, as “at peace” as such a divided, broken world can be.

And here’s Francis, high on the joy of simply being alive and free once more, suggesting that anything is possible. Hence, he and Arthur might have that union one day after all.

“Fat chance,” Arthur scoffs.

“Ah, do not be so negative,  _mon ami!”_ Francis insists, sidling up close to him. Arthur pretends to be disgusted and steps away, but Francis sees right through his feint and loops an arm around his waist, pulling him close once more. “Oh, please. Must you break my heart so?”

“If you’d rather I break your nose,” Arthur grunts, “just say the word.”

* * *

It’s the middle of the Cold War, and Arthur sits in silence, staring out the window of the small café. Beyond the glass lies the Strait of Dover. The water and sky seem to merge in the soft, gray fog. Drops of water on the window cast light, dappled shadows across the table.

Arthur sips his tea. Francis sips his wine.

“Ah, the end of the world,” Francis purrs. “Who knew it would come on such a dreary day?”

“It’s not the end of the world,” Arthur mutters.

“But of course,” Francis nods. “Not so long as my dear  _Angleterre_  still breathes.”

Surely Francis knows he’s not going to dignify that with an answer? Well, he shouldn’t answer, but finds himself doing it anyway, as he always does. He can’t let Francis have the last word.

“You’re drunk. And don’t call me ‘dear’.”

“If we only die once, I want to die with you,  _dear.”_

Arthur sighs in response.

“If I only die once with you around, I’ll be lucky.”

* * *

It’s not that Arthur has never considered the idea of marrying Francis, it’s just that some selfish, prideful part of him will not let him consider it for more than a few moments at a time.

Maybe it’s also that part of him that is to blame for him freezing up when Francis drops to one knee on a warm, moonlit August night.

“ _Angleterre,”_ Francis starts, his voice soft and smooth as velvet. “I cannot imagine a future without you. For as long as I can remember, you have been there, whether to berate me or fight me or mock me. And—I hope—you will find it somewhere inside you to love me too. Arthur, will you—”

But Arthur has already stopped listening. His throat is tight. His heart is pounding. A thousand thoughts and scenarios whirl in his head—and then his vision whirls too.

Suddenly, he’s looking up at a moonlight sky, perfectly illuminating Francis’s golden curls. Francis holds him gently, Arthur’s head cradled in his lap. A thumb strokes his cheek, and Arthur bolts upright as soon as he realizes what has happened.

Francis offers a light-hearted chuckled. “You fainted, straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

Arthur is torn. He wants to fume at him with a thousand years of pent up fury. But instead, he feels a greater urge to throw his arms around him. He resists both urges, only so he can get the last word, as he always does.

“You idiot,” he grumbles, straightening out his ruffled hair that Francis had clearly been messing with. “ _Me_  seeking attention? What was that act all about? You know I would have said yes if you had just said it casually.”

Francis gives him a coy smile. “Is that so?”

“Yes!”

“Because I’ve been asking for years,” Francis says, reaching out to smooth a section of hair that Arthur missed. “But I’m afraid you’re not one for picking up on artistic subtleties.”

Arthur sits there, mouth agape. “Are you calling me  _uncultured?”_ ****

“I’m calling you oblivious, infuriating—and the one for me,” Francis laughs, and he leans in closer. “Is that a yes?”

Arthur doesn’t hesitate—or faint—this time.

“Yes,” Arthur says after swallowing the frog in his throat. “Yes, you fool.”

Francis lets him have the last word without a fight this time. Instead of responding, he simple leans forward to close the now small distance between them and presses his lips to Arthur’s. Arthur’s heart flutters, and he pulls Francis down so that they both fall back onto the cool grass beneath them.


End file.
